


Kids With Guns

by Edgelord (lostlikeme)



Category: Deadpool (Movieverse), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics), Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Guns, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 16:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17328401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlikeme/pseuds/Edgelord
Summary: While Spider-Man is in the bathroom, Deadpool babysits a pint-sized Miles Morales and teaches him how to use a gun.





	Kids With Guns

It’s half past midnight by the time Spider-Man finally locates Deadpool in Chinatown, on the roof of a three story building with a restaurant on the bottom. He’s swinging his legs back and forth over the ledge like a schoolgirl waiting for the ferris wheel to start up, mask lying lifelessly on the cement beside him. He stops shoveling rice into his mouth when he notices Spider-Man, and plants the chopsticks in one of the takeout boxes. 

“Spidey!” Deadpool gasps. “A baby Daddy? Since when did you get a kid?” 

Spider-Man has lost some of the weight, but he’s also put a little back on. After Mary Jane didn’t immediately take him back, he fell into another depression. She said she needed time to “think things through.” Whatever that means.

“He’s not my kid.”

The half-pint standing next to him has a mass of dark curly hair and big brown eyes. He’s dressed in red and blue Spider-Man pajamas that look a little too small. Deadpool tries not to fawn over him like he would a puppy. 

“But look at him, he’s got your...” 

“I’m waiting.”

Deadpool gesticulates, trying to draw on any physical similarities between Peter Parker and his brown skinned, doe-eyed ward. Spider-tyke has begun to scale the side of the building during the conversation. 

“Powers!” Deadpool exclaims. “Look at the little spider-tot, he’s gonna slay by the time he’s your age.”

Spider-Man swipes the pouting child before he can reach the chimney and offers him to the mercenary. Behind his mask, there are bags under his eyes and a stippling of hair along his jaw.

“Can you just watch him for a minute? He’s been a toddler for I don’t know how long and I haven’t peed since breakfast.” 

Mini-Spidey crosses his arms and furrows his bushy brows. He looks reproachfully at Spider-Man resting his head in his hand. 

“I can hear you!” 

Spider-Man whips his head up to glare at him through the mask. 

“Good.”

Deadpool bends down on one knee to make eye contact and the little hero huffs and scrunches up his nose. 

“Hey there short stuff, you good with hanging out with me for a little while?”

“My name is Miles.”

“Of course it is.”

Deadpool stands and looks at Spider-Man.

“Are you going to explain any of this, or should I just follow these tropes to their logical conclusions?”

“He’s from another dimension,” Spider-Man says flippantly. “This is the kid I was telling you about.” Spider-Man already recounted the entire story weeks ago over chimichangas. “I don’t know why he’s like this, but he’s been growing since I found him yesterday. He’ll probably be back to normal in a day or two.”

“And then…”

“I find a way to send him back.”

“Right.”

“So are we good? Can you watch him for fifteen minutes?”

“Fifteen?”

“Twenty, tops.” Spider-Man rubs the back of his neck. “I had a burrito or three, sue me.”

Before Deadpool can say hashtag relatable, Spider-Man aims for a building in the general direction of a 7-11 and disappears behind the flick of a wrist, swinging through the air and weaving between skyscrapers.

“Looks like it’s just you and me now, kid.” Deadpool looks down, but the space beside him is empty, bereft of the child entrusted in his care. “Miles?” 

The bitter New York wind bellows while Deadpool scans the sidewalk below, fearing the worst.  
Just when he’s about ready to bolt and begin a one-man city-wide search party, he feels a little tap against his leg. The shimmer of invisibility fades and he finds Miles blinking nervously up at him. 

“Deadpool?”

“Yeah, kid?”

“Do you really kill people?” 

He was half expecting him to ask what the hell happened to his face. Deadpool’s brain stalls. It’s impossible to say whether Miles’ memories are intact, or if his brain in addition to his body has been reduced to pre-kindergarten mush. For once, Deadpool decides to play it safe.

“Only the bad guys.” 

His eyes light up like sunlight through a clay pot. 

“Just like my Dad.” 

Deadpool doesn’t have anything to say to that. 

“Do you have a gun?”

“Nooooo.” Deadpool waves his wrist. “I wouldn’t call them guns, per say. More like high-powered death machines.”

“What about that?” 

Deadpool follows Miles’ pointing finger to the weapon barely concealed by his belt. It’s the butt of his favorite gun.

“Did I say no? I meant yes.” He pats the gun like it’s a loyal dog before removing it from his waist to show Miles. “This one I call Vanessa. I named it after my dead girlfriend.” 

Miles blinks. “Can I shoot it?”

“No you can’t just - pfft. Kids with guns are a big no-no.”

“Tch.” Miles sucks his teeth. “Spider-Man would let me do it.” 

Deadpool considers this. The further Spider-Man’s morals slip into obscurity, the more difficult it becomes to locate his own. Ultimately, he lacks any real defense against the whims and puppy dog eyes of a preschooler.

“Normally I would disagree but since the hero in question is taking a shit in a 7-11 bathroom, fuck it.”

He drops down on one knee and braces Miles’ body against his chest. The city is splayed out around them in streaks of blue, black, and silver. Miles uses both hands to hold the gun, two tiny fingers curling around the trigger from either side. 

“See that over there?” Deadpool points to a red flag with a blue cross over it hanging from the side of a building. “That’s your first target. Think you can hit it?”

Miles squints, his tiny ears covered by Deadpool’s big, calloused hands. Waves ripple across the fabric as the wind howls. The sound of gunfire lingers in the air long after Miles flinches. 

“I missed.”

“Don’t worry so much.” Deadpool squeezes his shoulders and they bunch up by his ears before relaxing. “There you go. You’re smart, you can do this.”

Miles crushes one eye closed, trying to hold the weight of the pistol in his wavering, child-like grip. Deadpool steadies the barrel with his free hand, helping him aim.

“Now.”

The bullet tears through the air, searing a hole through the middle of the flag until part of the fabric doubles over and falls limp. Miles laughs. Deadpool’s ears are ringing.

“Good job!”

Miles relaxes at the sound of praise, and the gun falls at his side in his hand when he smiles. He has tiny, misaligned teeth, bright white. 

“This time you should try on a real target...” Deadpool licks his lips and points his thumbs to his chest. “Me.” 

Miles looks suspicious. His gaze flickers to the gun in his hands. 

“Won’t that hurt?” 

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got superhuman healing powers, remember?” Deadpool pushes himself off the ground and walks back to create some space. “Just don’t aim for anything vital.” Deadpool gives him a double thumbs up. “And kids, don’t try this at home.”

Miles takes a deep breath, doing his best to remember what Deadpool taught him. The five pound pistol is suddenly much heavier in his grip. He squishes both eyes shut when he finally manages to pull the trigger, sending a bullet whistling through the air and into the meat of the mercenary’s thigh. The kickback leaves him floored, so startled he pulls the trigger again.

“You know for a second there I really thought you were going to shoot off my - ”

There’s a reason Miles’ Dad has never let him hold his gun. A few, actually. Another bullet whizzes past and burrows into his flesh alongside the first. Deadpool chokes on the spit that was pooling in his mouth.

“Close one.” 

Miles is glued to the ground, shell-shocked, stuck staring at the Confederate flag blowing in the wind over Deadpool’s shoulder. Deadpool says something but Miles can’t understand, not when everything sounds like a movie heard from another room. He hunches over to shield Miles from the process of digging out the bullets, but Miles winces anyway, when the second joins the first on the ground, sticky with blood. 

Deadpool looks up and catches Miles staring, chewing on his bottom lip.

“Finally wondering what’s up with my face?” Miles doesn’t move, not even to lick the snot running from his nose. “Well the truth is my Mom was a normal woman, but my Dad was a pepperoni pizza.”

“I don’t believe you.” 

“You don’t have to believe me.” Deadpool pushes himself into a stand. “I’m half pepperoni pizza on my Dad’s side, and that’s that.” 

Miles sniffles and wipes his face with the sleeve of his shirt until it’s soaked with snot and tears. Deadpool offers his hand but Miles doesn’t take it.

“You want a hug?”

“No.”

“Well I want a hug,” Deadpool admits. “Can I have one?”

Miles shrugs. “I guess.” 

Deadpool pulls him into his arms like a ragdoll and Miles softens up after just a couple seconds, like butter in the microwave. Miles twiddles his fingers without returning the gesture before pulling back to look up at him. 

“Are you really okay?”

Deadpool smacks his thigh. 

“Good as new!”

Miles draws back to assess the regrown skin with his own eyes. The wounds are already completely healed. The tension drains from Miles’ shoulders, and the nagging sense of danger begins to fade. 

“Uh, hey.” Miles twists his feet on the floor. “I gotta go.”

“Where?” Deadpool raises his eyebrows as recognition dawns on him. “Oh, you have to go.”

Spider-Man turns the corner to find Deadpool and Miles halfway down the alley, facing the side of the Chinese restaurant. Twin streams of urine splash against the brickwork. 

“Seriously?” Spider-Man massages his temples. “Don’t teach him to pee on buildings.”

“I’m not,” Deadpool insists. “I’m showing him how to aim.” 

“Ugh, fine.” Spider-Man unzips his pants to join them. “At least you didn’t give him a gun.”

“Not that I’m complaining, but didn’t you just come from a bathroom?”

“I had a slushie on the way back. Sue me.”


End file.
